Interference
by VitaSeptima
Summary: Having exhausted all diplomatic channels, there are times when internal affairs require a little judicious political interference to set things straight. A little one shot set at Havensworth.
Thump. Thump. Thump

The floor throbbed with the pounding base beat; she could feel the vibrations through her feet, winding up her leg like a vine, holding her rooted to the spot. She sensed his presence and looked up, her breath suspended as he walked down the corridor. With each step he took, the length of the hallway telescoped inward. He stopped before her and she opened her mouth to speak but the words would not come, her thoughts overwhelmed by the sound of her pounding heart.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His arm reached out and wound about her waist as he flowed into her, his lips coming down to hers and she melted into him. There were no doors, no walls; all the barriers between them had disappeared. Everything faded away and they were in her room, wrapped in the darkness and each other. Their clothes evaporated, he was on top of her, skin on skin.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Breathing. Touching. Tasting. Hands everywhere. Everything she had ever dreamed of...

Thud.

Ruth's gasped and her eyes flew open. She blinked twice in an effort to get her bearings. Shit. Where was she?

Her head rested on her folded arms and she could feel the wooden surface of a table beneath her hands. She wasn't on the Grid, it was too quiet. Slowly, her brain surfaced from the fog of her dream and she cautiously sat up, looking around. She took in the panelled walls, the filigreed furniture, golden brown under the accent lamps. With a sigh of relief, she placed her surroundings. Havensworth. Room 205. She was sat at the table in the middle of the room, surrounded by nothing but operational notes and silence. She ran her hand through her hair, thankful that she was alone. It would have been mortifying if anyone had walked in and found her asleep. She closed her eyes and massaged her stiff neck, her mind floating back to the dream. She let her fingers trail over her throat, losing herself in the memory, the sensations lingering far longer than the details. It had been such a lovely dream.

She stretched her leg out under the table and her toe came up against a hard object on the floor. A book lay sprawled on the carpet at her feet. It must have fallen from her hands while she slept, the resulting crash having woken her. She picked it up and closed the cover, running her hand over the spine. She had always hated it when books were left face down with the spine cracked open. She placed it back on the desk and smoothed the cover, her finger running over the title. All the Stats, All the Rules, All the Way. She smiled at her resourcefulness, her foresight in bringing the massive tome on hockey to the Summit. Her research had told her that the American Secretary of State was a hockey fan and she had suspected that it would be his Achilles heel. She couldn't understand the appeal of the game, men with sticks shooting a piece of rubber over the ice, but it didn't matter. For some reason, she had become obsessed with the statistics of the game and the book had become her refuge. She had poured over it, remembering dates, shutouts, career assists. Before she had fallen asleep, she had been memorising various penalties. Apparently, Icing had nothing to do with cake, Cross Checking didn't mean verifying information and she still couldn't list all the infractions that came under the banner of Interference.

She had convinced herself that she was memorising the facts in case they needed to use them in their dealings with Traynor Styles, but she knew she was burying herself in the book so she wouldn't have to think about Harry. Obviously, it had not worked, since the minute she had closed her eyes he had entered her dreams.

The ventilation system hummed softly behind her, pumping stale air through the room. No wonder she had drifted to sleep. The windows didn't open, rendering the room conducive to secrets but not to staying alert. In the battle between her and sleep, she was playing at a disadvantage. She had not slept through the night since Harry had invited her for dinner. What she wouldn't give to revisit those sleepless nights before their date, ripe with delicious anticipation, heady with the discovery of another side of Harry. To go back to the night after their dinner, where she had laid awake, revelling in the memory of the softest of goodnight kisses, cheeks brushing against one another, thinking of how the world lay before them and how it would feel to lay beside him. She closed her eyes. Stop it, she told herself, that way madness lies. They knew. They all knew. She inhaled sharply as if the memory of her conversation with Malcolm were a physical pain. The fragile little bubble of personal space she had created amongst terror and crisis had burst open for everyone to see. The wonderful nights of wakeful promise had been soundly routed by the sleeplessness of regret.

Her fingers worried over the amber ring on her finger, twisting it around as her thoughts circled in on one another. The hotel had offered no respite from her sleepless nights and her insomnia was compounded by their encounter in the corridor. Painfully brief, an observation from him, inane ramblings from her. It had left her tossing and turning in her lonely hotel bed, the sheets as tangled as her feelings for the man. The next night was no better and she had worn a path to her door, stopping each time to talk herself out of going to his room. She sighed. Better that it all remain a dream.

The phone rang and she gave a little jump in her seat. She picked her mobile and then realised it was the landline. She moved over to the small table in the corner that held the phone and tentatively picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Ruth, it's Malcolm."

She smiled at the sound of his voice. In truth, she was very lonely in room 205. The other members of the team flew through like hurricanes, stopping only for information, then back on to the floor among dignitaries and trade ministers. She knew that it was her job to be the constant in a centralised location but she missed the Grid, missed the simple act of interacting with people. She felt cloistered away and she knew it was Harry's doing. A part of her bristled at the manipulation, that even though it had been Adam who summoned her here, she knew it had been at Harry's request, the fact that her room was a few doors down from his, allying her suspicions. Of course, she would never confront him about it. The sound of Malcolm's voice brought her back to the present.

"We're experiencing a glitch with Diaspora."

"What is it?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out. I've lost the trace on a few phones, one of them being Adam's."

"That's odd. Do you know what's causing it?" She turned her mobile over in her hand, silently relieved that Diaspora wasn't working.

"Solar flares, magnetic pulses, the price of tea. I don't know. I'm taking the system offline for a few minutes. I need you to do a scan with your cameras, see if you can find Adam."

"Of course."

"I may be back online before you find him, but give me a ring if you do."

"Right." She moved to hang up the phone but Malcolm's voice stopped her.

"How are holding up out there?" he asked.

Ruth stiffened at the question. "Fine."

"I wanted you to know..." His voice trailed off.

"Malcolm," her voice softened, "I'm fine, really." Even though he had held the pin that pricked her bubble with Harry she couldn't stay mad at him. He didn't know. He was not malicious; he had only wished her well and somehow that made it even worse.

"You're very much missed here," said Malcolm.

His words made her smile. "I miss the Grid."

"Jo is looking into Baptiste Kadala. Have you come across anything relevant?"

"Nothing. Only that hockey players make an indecent amount of money."

Malcolm chuckled. "Yes, it's a pity that brawn is often rewarded over brains."

After a few more comments on the outrageous salaries of sports figures, they said their goodbyes and Ruth hung up the phone. Shaking the cobwebs off, she felt a renewed sense of energy, thankful that she had been given a task to occupy her mind. She turned to the computer, pulled up the camera feeds and toggled through the screens. She found Zaf having a cigarette by the service entrance, looking forlorn, no doubt due to the lack of female companionship. Maybe she could call him, see if he would like to stop by and have a drink. She thought better of it and continued to scroll through the feeds, watching hallways, stairwells, banquet rooms. No sign of Adam. She flicked to the bar and stopped, her breath catching in her throat. Harry. He sat by himself, nursing a drink. How odd that they were in a hotel full of people yet each of them was sitting alone. Would it be so wrong to reach out to him? Keeping her eye on the screen, she picked up the telephone receiver. She could call him; say it was about Adam, inform him about the glitch in Diaspora, anything just to hear his voice. Tell him he was needed in Room 205 straightaway. To what end? She placed the phone back on the hook. Don't be a fool, she scolded. She moved onto the next camera but found her eyes drawn back to the phone, her thoughts wandering to Harry. She gave an exasperated huff and shook her head, vowing to concentrate on the feed as she spied Ros, perched at the reception desk, talking on the phone.

The door to the room opened and she started with surprise. Her shoulders eased and a smile crossed her face as she concluded that it must be Adam.

"I was wondering where you were." She turned around; her smile quickly evaporating as she realised it was Harry. He stood in dark relief against the door, his expression inscrutable, the stillness of his posture unnerving. Her first instinct was to flee but she quickly quelled it. Over the course of the past two days, she had managed to not be alone with him, except for one brief moment, where the talk of the Summit had quelled any unease between them. She couldn't avoid him forever; they had to work together. Why would he be here at this hour? A bolt of panic shot through her, the tension causing her words to spill out. "I'm sorry, I thought you were Adam,"

"Were you expecting him?"

"No. I couldn't find him and I thought..." She gestured toward the computer. She stopped and looked at him, puzzled. "Weren't you just in the bar?"

"Were you spying on me?" he asked as he crossed the room, stopping at a small table that held an assortment of liquor bottles.

Ruth ignored the question. "He's not on any of the feeds and Malcolm couldn't trace him on Diaspora."

"Yes, Malcolm called. Should I be worried?"

"I don't know. Adam has been through a lot lately."

"I don't want to have to send to Tring." He raised a bottle and eyed the contents. "Yesterday, there were four bottles of scotch here, this morning there were three and now there are only two. I would hazard a guess that one of them is with Adam. Unless you have been partaking."

She gave him a wan smile. "No."

"I think Adam and Ros were here in the wee small hours of the morning." He gathered up the bottle along with two glasses and walked over to the desk where she sat.

"Doing what?"

"Talking, I would assume as people are want to do."

"Yes, it's good to have someone to talk to." She couldn't help the corners of her mouth from turning up mischievously. "Even if it is Ros."

"Indeed."

He looked down at her as he set the tumblers and the scotch on the desk. With one hand, he manoeuvred a chair around, placing it beside her. He positioned himself so he was facing her but she resolutely kept her body turned toward the computer screen. He unstopped the scotch and poured them each a large measure. As he twisted the lid back on, his knee brushed hers, the assuredness in which he invaded her personal space taking her by surprise. She shifted in her chair, creating what she thought was appropriate professional distance.

"I have to..." She waved her hand in the general direction of the computer, searching for an excuse.

"What?" He looked at her, one brow raised, knowing exactly that there was nothing she had to do.

She pointed at the scotch and shook her head. "I shouldn't."

Keeping his eyes on her, he slid the glass closer with a deliberate motion. He had come with a purpose and her mind raced frantically trying figuring out what it might be. She steeled herself and conceded to his offer, reaching out for the glass, the colour of the liquid mirroring the amber stone of her ring. She took a sip for courage and blinked at its potency.

"How do you drink this?"

"Determination." He took a large swallow of his drink. "I couldn't do anything for her father." He saw Ruth's quizzical look. "Jocelyn Meyers. He'll get the full twenty years."

"He was a traitor, Harry." With a sense of relief, she turned in her seat to face him, willing to open herself up to the conversation seeing that it was going to be about the team. "How did Ros take it?"

"I haven't told her."

She sucked a stream of air through her teeth.

"What?" He gave her a look of apprehension. "Should I have told her?"

"It's your call, Harry."

"I couldn't tell her, we're in the middle of an Op," he looked grumbled, looking into his glass as he spoke; giving the impression that he was trying convincing himself more than her.

"You don't need to coddle her. She's not a kitten."

"Perhaps not, but she still has claws." This time, the corners of his mouth tipped up. "I'll let her find out when we get back."

"She'll blame you."

"Inevitably. They always do. One of the perks of my position."

"Heavy lies the head-"

She left the quote unfinished; certain that Harry knew the rest. In the space between the words, her mind flew off without her consent, the image of his head resting on a pillow as they lay together in bed. She quickly took a sip of her drink, hoping her expression didn't belie her inner thoughts. He couldn't read her mind. Could he? He carried on seemingly unaware of her imaginings.

"I needed her full concentration. Especially now that Adam has gone spectacularly off script. Playing our hand to Sekoa, telling him Baptiste Kadala had info he was going to attack his own people."

"He was frustrated. We all are."

Their eyes met for a brief second and Ruth quickly looked away. Perhaps frustrated had not been the best choice of words. She shifted in her seat, nervously crossing her legs, the hem of her skirt sliding up over the top of her knee. She saw his gaze drop down to her leg, the length of her calf exposed through the sheerness stocking. He clenched his jaw and his thumb absently rubbed over the side of the tumbler. With feigned casualness, she ran her hand down her thigh, smoothing the skirt back into place. She cleared her throat, watching him from beneath her lashes as he took a long drink.

"The Foreign Secretary wants our presence disbanded," he continued.

"And will we?" Her voice felt unnaturally bright as she tried to retain a conversational tone

Harry gave her a look that said she should know better than to ask. "I'll have a talk with Adam. Tell him to keep a low profile."

"He wasn't thinking of the consequences. He was acting out of passion."

The moment the word fell from her lips she wanted to retract it. It hung in the air between them like tantalising fruit, waiting for one of them to acknowledge it. The temperature of the room subtly changed, a strange and exotic silence opened up between them, wanting to be filled, but she couldn't think of anything to say. A warm flush crept over her cheek as she felt his eyes on her, studying her.

"Did we do the right thing?"

"About what?" she cautiously asked.

"Stopping Baptiste Kadala from assassinating Sekoa."

She let out a small breath. Good, they were sticking to business. "We made the best decision with the information that we had."

"He's planning genocide on his own people."

"We have no intel to corroborate that."

"Styles is selling him biological weapons through Global Cordon.'

"We don't know what Sekoa is going to do. We can't predict the future."

"No, none of us can do that." He turned his attention to the scotch, refilling his glass and topping hers off. He swirled the liquid around, a reflective look on his face. "Have I ruined everything?"

"You're can't be held responsible for the fate of West Monrassa."

"No, I mean us. Our ability to work together," he elaborated. "Because it seems that I need you." The air around them thickened with the inference of his words. "It's a lonely job. There aren't many people I can trust. That I can talk to. I need your counsel."

She nodded. "Of course." She held her breath, twisting her ring nervously, silently praying that the conversation would continue to cling to the precipice of business.

"Did you not enjoy our dinner together?"

She froze. There it was. He had stepped off the cliff and was waiting for her to join him. The ease in which he had moved between the operational and the personal left her disoriented, although she should be used to it by now, after all, he had segued from talk of a thermobaric bomb to a dinner invitation.

"I had a lovely time," she stuttered.

"It was the company then?"

She looked down at her skirt, her fingers picking at an invisible thread.

"Is there nothing I can do to persuade you to have dinner with me again?" he asked, the timbre of his voice lowering a notch.

"I told you why I couldn't." She kept her eyes down.

"I'm only asking for dinner."

"Are you?"

She raised her gaze and found his eyes on her, dark and full of want. The air compressed from her lungs as if she had fallen from a great height and she quickly looked away. There was a band around her chest and she was unable to draw air. She managed to take a deep breath, her heart pounding so hard that he must have heard it. Unable to look at him directly, her eyes gravitated to his tie, black with a thin silver stripe winding its way over the fabric. She wanted to follow the trail of it with her fingers, see where it would lead. How many times had she looked at his ties, wondering what it would be like to undo them and here he was offering her the chance. What was stopping her?

"Do you know how old I am?" she asked, aware that he already knew the answer. He turned his head away and took a swig of his scotch. She had dealt him a low blow but it was a fact that there were significant years between them. There were innumerable facts that stood in their way. "You're my boss."

"You knew that when you accepted my invitation," he countered.

"What would happen if things went sour?"

"What makes you think things would go sour?"

Nothing lasts forever, she thought. "I love my job. I'm good at it."

"Yes you are," he agreed.

"Where would I go?"

"Why would you have to go anywhere?"

It was all too much. She was exhausted and swimming in waters far deeper than she had ever tread. She couldn't stop the tremor in her voice. "You would send me away."

"Never," he answered adamantly.

"You're Head of the Section, I'm just an Analyst," she whispered.

He leant in closer to hear her words. "You know you're more than that."

She placed her hand on the desk, hoping that her arm would be a barrier between them. Her finger found a water mark, a circle of moisture left by her glass. She traced over it, round and round like their argument. She came back to her original objection. "People will talk."

"Let them." His hand covered hers. She tried to pull it away but he held tight.

She closed her eyes, hoping to strengthen her resolve. "Why are you making this so difficult for me?"

"Is it? It seems very easy for you to refuse me."

"That's not fair."

"When have I ever played fair?"

The words sent a shiver through her and she found herself instinctively drawn to him. She watched as his fingers wound around her hand, his thumb circling over the mound of her thumb, dipping into the valley of her palm, sliding back and forth over the sensitive skin. She closed her eyes, a current of longing pulsing through her, a flame licking deep within her spine, the ice of her resolve melting in her belly. His other arm slid over the back of her chair and his knee pressed into the side of her thigh as he moved in closer. This time, she didn't move away, held spellbound by his proximity. Her lips parted as he brought his face next to hers.

"We're alone in a hotel." His voice had settled in the back of his throat, sitting on the knife's edge between intensity and seduction.

She struggled to keep her thoughts clear. "There are over two hundred delegates here-"

"Not in this room."

"As well as a number of people whose job it is to spy for a living."

"I don't care about them," he murmured.

He was close, so very close, she could feel the heat radiating off of him. She wanted to touch him, hold him, be a part of that heat.

The phone rang and she jumped up from her seat, pulling her hand away from his. Harry rose with her as if drawn by her movement. They stood looking at each other, barely breathing, unable to fully break the connection that had been woven between them. The phone rang again. She blindly reached for it, her eyes remaining locked on Harry's as she fumbled for the receiver and brought it to her ear.

"Hello?"

Through the mists of her brain, she heard Malcolm's voice.

"I've traced Adam. There's no need to worry."

"That's good," she replied. She had no idea what he was referring to, having completely lost herself in Harry's gaze.

"I'll let you know when Diaspora is back up."

"Okay," she breathlessly agreed, Harry having claimed all her attention as he shifted his weight toward her.

She put down the phone without saying goodbye, the receiver clattering against its hook. Harry reached across her, his chest touching hers as he moved his hand down the length of her arm, covering her fingers as he adjusted the receiver on the hook.

"It wasn't in the cradle," he murmured his cheek next to hers.

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by his rich, familiar scent. No, she wasn't going to do this. Someone could walk in at any minute. She had made a decision. She would adhere to it. She stepped back and bumped into her chair. Teetering, she reached behind her, searching for the back of the chair. Harry grabbed her upper arm, his other arm coming to her waist in an attempt to steady her. Images from her dream swirled before her. She placed her fingers on his forearm wanting to push him away, but the impulse from her brain did not make it to her hand. Instead, she held on tighter, using him as leverage. He pulled her closer, a look of wonder crossing his face as if an unexpected gift had appeared before him.

"Harry." She said his name so softly that it barely registered as a warning.

His face was only a breath away from hers, his voice a whisper. "I need you."

She blinked, wondering if she had heard him correctly. Before she could respond his lips came down on hers. Resolve crumbling, mind numbing, her body swayed as he drew her in. This is a dream, she thought, she had fallen asleep again and would wake up any moment. Enticing kisses, his lips soft and coaxing, eliciting waves of warmth to wash over her. She drifted along on the sensation, letting him take her away. What a marvellous dream this was. Her hands came up to rest on his chest and she felt the worsted wool of his suit beneath her fingers, the heaviness of his breath as he inhaled her, the faint bite of whiskey on his tongue as he ran it over her lips. Every sense heightened, every detail perfectly clear. This was no dream. She opened her eyes and saw the ruddy flush of his cheek so incredibly near, his eyes closed, lost in the act of kissing her. She gave a small whimper and tried to move away but he crushed her closer. The whimper turned into a soft moan and she surrendered. It was madness to fight such a wonderful feeling. Her exhaustion melted away and the world lay before them once again. Nothing else mattered, only him. His heart beating against hers.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He stepped away from the desk, pulling her with him, stumbling, their feet tangled amongst each other. He righted them and she marvelled at the solid reality of him, his stomach pressing against hers, the hardness of his thigh moving between her legs. She opened her mouth, inviting him in. His breathing became faster, the labour of it mirroring hers, her breaths echoing his. His fingers dug into her back and they swayed towards a settee. Take me there, she silently willed him, her fingers clutching the fabric of his suit. She wanted nothing more than to fall into the cushions and have him fall on her, feel the weight of him, feel his heat against her as she had felt it in her dream. Instead, she felt his grip relaxing as he eased away, his lips moving across her cheek, coming to rest at her ear. The silence of the room was broken by their panting breaths.

"Perhaps we should continue this when we truly are alone in a hotel," he whispered hoarsely into her ear.

"That's quite a shift from dinner," she smiled against his cheek.

"You're right." He pulled away, letting his forehead against hers.

"About what?" Her fingers found their way to his tie, tracing over the silver vein that ran through it, feeling the beat of his heart beneath her palm.

"Everything."

She was overcome by a desire to tell him that she loved him but stopped herself, wanting to hold something in reserve; it was too soon, she would save it for the right time. She pulled his head down to hers, indulging in slow, languorous kisses, extending on forever and at the same time ending all too soon.

He stepped away, his hands remaining on her waist, his eyes running over her. She looked at him, heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed, and she wondered if she had within her the power to make him change his mind just as he had changed hers. She saw his throat bob as he swallowed and knowing smile stole across her lips. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he closed eyes and took a deep breath as his hands dropped away. He cleared his throat, his fingers rising to straighten the knot in his tie, smoothing down the silver stripe that she had recently felt her fingers.

"I should..." He motioned towards the door, a crack in his voice.

Rocking on her heels, her hand floated in the air towards the computer. "As should I."

He didn't move but stood, staring at her. She smiled at him, revelling in the freedom of letting her emotions show.

"Goodnight, Harry."

He gave her a soft smile in return. "Goodnight, Ruth."

He turned and made his way out the door, the catch clicking softly behind him as it closed. She could faintly hear him whistling as he walked down the hall. She cocked her head, listening, trying to place the tune. Lilibulero she thought. She found herself humming the same tune as she wrapped her arms around herself, still not quite believing what had happened. She remembered the bottle of scotch and the glasses on the desk and moved to put them back in the proper place. It would never do for anyone to find out that she and Harry had been alone in the room.

The phone rang and she floated towards the desk, answering it with a cheery hello. It was Malcolm.

"Diaspora is back online."

"That's good to hear. What about Adam?"

"I phoned you a few minutes ago to say that we had found him."

"Yes. Yes. Of course." Her brow furrowed as she reordered her thoughts.

"I'll give you a ring in the morning," Malcolm continued. "Have a good night."

"You too."

She slowly put down the receiver; her finger tapping on the plastic as a feeling of unease crept over her. Funny how Diaspora had come back online just has Harry had left the room. She narrowed her eyes. Malcolm, she whispered aloud. Back at the Grid, he had said what happened between her and Harry was none of his business, now here he was meddling. Or was he? He couldn't have predicted what they would do if they were left alone in a room together. Oh well, what did it matter? They knew. They all knew. She looked about the room and let out a sigh of contentment. Perhaps Room 205 wasn't that bad after all. It was warm and glowing and invitingly intimate. She yawned as she shut down the computer, giving her mind permission to wander. They would have dinner and maybe something more. A lot more. She would let it all unfold in its own way. She closed her eyes and smiled, remembering the reality of him instead of the dream. She would surely sleep well tonight.


End file.
